


There's no rage like love to hatred turned

by tatch



Series: Serendipity [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Constantine (Comic), Constantine (TV), DCU, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Coffee, Getting Together, John is exactly as much of an asshole as he wants to be, M/M, Magical Mumbo Jumbo, No Robin was hurt during the writing of this fanfic, Smoking, Soul Bond, Vague mention of past trauma, Wards and seals, lots of smoking, many cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23659516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatch/pseuds/tatch
Summary: Uninvited guests are not welcome and as always, there's coffee.
Relationships: John Constantine/Jason Todd
Series: Serendipity [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/932661
Comments: 25
Kudos: 155





	There's no rage like love to hatred turned

John examines the ward. It's sturdy, shaped and drawn right. Infused with enough energy to make it dangerous but not so much of it as to be lethal.

It's fitting.

He sits back on his heels. He's earned his smoke. Not that he wouldn't have taken it anyway. His break, then. He can't finish warding the goddamn place without Jason being here anyway. So he uncurls and stretches, heads to the kitchen.

This place's just another in the long list of cringy studios and less than decent apartments (safe-houses, really, though neither of them uttered the word) Jason seems to ... live in? own? occupy.

It's just another place John's put wards in. To protect himself. To protect the kid.

But there's something about this place. The shadow of something that hangs in the air, not heavy, no, but there nonetheless. It's in the way Jason's sleep is deeper, the lack of tension in his shoulders. It's in the easier smiles the kid's thrown at him, the lighter tone of his voice. In the quietness, the easier, more playful pull and push and give of their bond. It's ... different, somehow.

So John had decided that this place, this shitty two-bit studio with a broken window, no functional entry door, a three legged and three-quarters-of-a-fourth-one table and no bed, deserved some more protecting. 

It had taken four wards, two ‘traps’ and a yet-to-be-finished special 'gift' for him to be content with his work.

He inhales, feeling the smoke fill his lugs, exhales. The smoke lingers in heavy curls that are blown away as soon as they reach the broken edges of the window's frame.

At least, there's a couch. A very comfortable couch. Three nights spent sleeping in it, sometimes with, sometimes without company, haven't changed his mind. 

It could probably use more cushions though, his neck stubbornly reminds him every time he gets up from laying in the damn thing. Or cushions that aren’t so flat they might as well not be there at all. Or maybe he's just getting old.

He snorts. As if. And even if he was, age's never stopped or even slowed any of the magicians he knows. Neither had death, for that matter. But that's a subject he doesn't quite want to dwell on. Something to reflect on another day. Probably never.

  
His gaze passes over the street, lingering on the people passing by. The few people still out at this hour are rushing back to their homes, to their loved ones, to things John's never had nor wanted. Well, there had been that short time with Zee and Nick but-

The sounds are dimmed, six something floors down, but the drunken laughter still carries all the way up here. 

Where-  
There.

The small group of (men? women? a mix of the two? It's hard to tell from this far) people is ... It looks like harassing, even from this far, especially from the way the lone figure is trying to weave around them and failing to escape the group. John takes a drag, sighs and flicks what's left of his cigarette away, curling intent and a dash of magic to it before letting it fly away.

He watches, tapping another cigarette out of his packet, as it dances in the air, sudden gusts of unnatural wind making it fly true toward the group. It hits one of them and bounces off, hitting another, creating enough of a distraction for the stranger to run away.

Zee would be sooo proud of him doing the right thing-

Down there, the cigarette bounces one last time and lands in someone's hair. Which, of course, catches fire.

-or maybe not.

But hey. He tried. That's gotta count.

Not that he cares. Not really. Okay, he cares a bit. But that's more out of habit and his own lingering feelings than anything else. Zee only sees what he could have become and never who he is and it's...

It still hurts, in ways he ignores more often than not.

Not like whatever this thing he's got going on with Jason.

It's not just friendship, but hells if John can tell if there's really more to it. Could be just his loneliness speaking. Having found someone who not only tolerates but actually enjoys spending time with him is close enough to a goddamn miracle that he'd pray if he had a shred of faith in any god left.

Makes him almost, almost miss the kid when he's not there.

John returns to the somehow-called-so living room and lets himself flop in the couch.

_‘I'll be back by sunrise.’_

Seems like a constant to Jason's nightly outings. The only constant, if John's honest with himself.

_Focus, not directed at him, readiness and half worry._ Shit. He sends reassurance back, feels assent rise through their bond and just like that, Jason's focus returns to whatever the fuck it is he's doing in the middle of the night that keeps him away for hours. Almost every night, regardless of the city they’re in.

John grins to the emptiness of the room. Jason never second guesses his intentions or his feelings. It's still exhilarating, to be trusted this much, even after two weeks of prolonged contact. To know that if he says, if he sends reassurance, Jason won't press. The kid just accepts it and moves on. 

He gets called on his bullshit sometimes but it's in subtle ways. Like Jason flopping on him and wrapping his arms around his chest when the loneliness feels like a living, crawling thing under his clothes. Like a plate filled with food being set near him when he's too busy or too lost in his thoughts to notice the gnawing hunger in his belly. And he knows he takes care of Jason's needs as well, pouring two mugs of coffee rather than one, more often than not, pulling the kid close when he's tired, to let him sleep more restfully, offering comfort and affection, without words being needed. Going food shopping when he remembers to, because Jason hates supermarkets, despite how at ease he is weaving around any local shop or food joint.

They don't talk that much. Well, aside from banter, jokes and sarcasm going back and forth. But they talk when it's necessary, when the bond singing between them isn't enough for understanding, for intent to be translated into actions. When explanations are needed, when either of them is too exhausted, too wound up to interpret emotions and subtle moves.

  
He considers smoking another cigarette, trying to stay awake long enough to be awake when Jason returns. He's got the damn thing in his fingers already, rolling and crinkling slightly under his touch. 

.... nah. Once Jason's back. Maybe? Whenever that will be. He'll smoke one with the kid, share the satisfaction of a night well spent. But until then, he can doze off in the couch.

He needs some catch-eye anyway.

* * *

Jason hisses under his breath as he prods the sensitive patch of flesh that stretches from his hip to just under his ribs. It's nothing life-threatening, probably won't even scar, but it's in a damn inconvenient spot. Every time he shifts a bit, the damn wound flares, pain licking up his side.

_Annoying._

He's done what he'd planned for the night so he can head back the safe-house but- Jason had kinda wanted to pay one of the lieutenants whose party he'd crashed tonight a visit. Preferably before the guy skipped town.

He sighs, tenses when sharp pain flares along his flank. Fucking goddamn badly placed wound. He can keep track of the guy, pay him a visit another time. He doesn’t want John to worry too much.

The trek back is tense, more than usual, because for one, he doesn't have his bike, doesn't want to attract attention by stealing one he'd enjoy riding. And for two, that dick of a Bluebird has been after his ass since Shanghai. Before he'd met John. He's not sure what's got the Golden Boy's panties in such a twist. It's not like he'd been trying to rile him up. For once. Not recently anyway.

  
And his last brush with the Golden Boy had been before... John had said something about souls. That Jason's soul and body had been separated when he'd been brought back to life. The memories he'd recovered the first time he'd clasped hands with John in that shit hole of a bar...

If he remembers correctly, before Talia had decided to dunk him into the Pit. Again. 

Jay doesn't want to think about it too much. That everything he'd done in the space of time between his two dips into the Pit had been... He hadn't had a soul. No moral compass. No sense of right and wrong. Only feelings and memories. Pain of being freshly reborn. Of being replaced. And anger. So much anger. Rage, really.

It still simmers at the back of his mind, resentment, fury he's no longer sure what to do with. Still there, embers waiting for a spark to ignite again. He can't pinpoint the exact moment he'd stopped wanting ... retribution, payback. For others to suffer like he was. But he remembers the days spent awake, his already uneasy sleep plagued with nightmares. 

The usual ones, where he was beaten to death, left behind only to burn. The ones where he came back to life, trapped in the Pit, unable to reach the surface, drowning and being revived over and over again.

And new ones, after Talia had- Hands clawing at his face, his skin, too many hands scratching and tearing him open, forever screaming faces pressing at his own, dead eyes staring into his soul. He'd wake up nauseated, shivering. Sick to his stomach with some of the things he'd done. To strangers. To his own _family._

Soul or no soul, he's responsible for those acts. He owns his mistakes. He'll pay the price when the time comes.

But until then, he's got a job to do. Preferably without bleeding all over his friend. Bleeding? He ducks into a darker alley, checks himself rapidly. Well fuck. That motherfucker doesn't just hurt, it bleeds too. Just great. Thankfully, he's almost back to the safe-house.

Climbing up the fire escape proves to be a poor decision. Two floors up and he feels ready to tear someone a new one. Five and all he wants is to lay down and pass out for a few hours.

The sixth floor, thank fuck, is his stop.

* * *

John wakes up suddenly, with the certainty something is wrong. No, not wrong, just... out of place. Different than when he'd fallen asleep. Before that. How long has it been. He doesn't move an inch, brushing against the wards mentally. Opens up his eyes after a couple seconds of careful checking. No intruder? Either an animal or- 

Noise in the ... what's over there again? The bathroom. Right?

Lighting up a cigarette as he strolls slowly to the dim rays of light making out the edges of the door, he sends something akin to a _'Hey it's me'_ through the bond. Good thing he did because he feels Jason startle. _Guilt, something heavy, like a weight jabbed in his chest and pain._

John pulls the door open and offers the cigarette in the same move. He doesn't want Jason to feel like he needs to explain ... any of what got him hurt. Or what he’s feeling. The kid accepts it with relief and an undercurrent of guilt, exchanging it for the compresses he'd been keeping pressed to his side in return.

The wound doesn't look bad but it looks like bullet wounds. John's seen enough of those to recognize them, even though they're usually on dead people or corpses when he would see them. Yes, there is a difference when you can see ghosts. Seeing them on the side of a still breathing human body, calmly oozing blood as the kid takes a drag of the cigarette and gives him a questioning look, is-

Smoke curls around his shoulders as Jason exhales. "Not used to blood?" 

"Not used to it coming out of someone that’s still alive." His lips curl at the edges as Jason huffs. _Amused curiosity._ "Got questions?"

Jason gives him another look, exhaling again, huffing the smoke away this time, up to the ceiling. "Do you?"

John stares back, then finishes cleaning up the kid's wound. It's more long scratches and a couple of deeper ... holes. Bullet wounds, shallow but unmistakable.

"Will you answer if I ask?" John asks, bandaging the kid's ribs and part of his thigh with the help of the owner of said body parts. They stare at each other once it's wrapped securely. Jason takes a long drag of the cigarette before offering it back. 

"Answer for an answer. Your magic...?" ' _Will it be alright' and a brush of worry._ The kid gets up, grimacing but takes assured steps toward the couch. John sends reassurance, assent and heads to the kitchen, killing what's left of the smoke and bringing back a mug of reheated coffee a moment later. He sets it by Jason, who's curled on himself, second hand pain stabbing at the edges of John's consciousness. "Painkillers?"

Jason jerks his head to the bathroom, brows twitching as pain jabs through both of them. "By the sink."

A nod, and a minute or five of searching later, John returns with a bottle of painkillers. He'd eyed the vials of morphine for a moment before deciding against. If the kid had wanted the morphine, he would have asked for it specifically. Probably.

Jason pops three with a gulp of coffee and grunts as he settles back at one end of the couch, letting John flop back into it as well. Another cigarette gets light up and Jason accepts it, just like the first.

Relief flashes through the bond, stretching lazily in the space occupied by pain, pushing it back.

John smirks, then grins when the kid's annoyance bubbles up through the rest. "Shut up." The grumble comes out before a long drag on the cigarette. John's retort, a Make me, stays unspoken in his belly. He steals the cigarette instead.

"Lay on me?" He offers, when it becomes clear the kid's too wound up to relax or ask anything and the silence is becoming heavy, something John isn’t used to. Or appreciates. Jason eyes the windows behind him critically before getting up with a swallowed hiss. "Here." John scoots to the other end of the couch without complain or comment and gets a lap full of Jason a second later. It takes a few more minutes for them to settle into a position that's both comfortable for John and easy on the kid's wounded side. 

The bond itself stretches and purrs lazy contentment between them.

The silence is comfortable this time, Jason's back to his front, the back of his head resting on John's chest, the cigarette dancing from hand to hand, from lips to lips.

"Will you be okay answering questions?" Jason makes a hand motion to end the sentence. He might not have felt the assent, reassurance he’d sent earlier then. John shrugs a shoulder, accepting a drag on the cigarette directly from the kid's fingers. He exhales, watching the smoke cloud over their heads. "Should be.” He says vaguely. “It's ... busy.”

"Busy?"

John scratches the stubble of his cheeks, looking down from the ceiling when the kid’s head tilts up. “Yeah. Been warding your … flats.” A slow blink. Hideout, _safe-house_ still feels more fitting a word for the shit studios and the broken, rundown apartments but he doesn’t want to put it to words without being certain. He steals the smoke back, gives a twist of his wrist before taking a long drag of it, relishing the burn in his lungs. Gives a lazy flick of his wrist to the mostly empty rooms. “This one feels more … lived in. Put on some extra on top.” He scratches his nose with the back of his thumb. “Needed you back to finish up.”

Jason falls silent, shifting minutely against him. He’s thoughtful, and John can almost feel the train of his thoughts working on that information together. Doesn’t look like he has anymore questions at the moment, though. Well then.

“How’d you get shot, love?” 

Jason stills, then relaxes, stretching his legs further. “Crashed a drug dealer’s … party. Him and his goons weren’t _thrilled_ to see me.” The cigarette dances on John’s lips as he mulls that over. “Habit of yours? Crashing in uninvited on some criminal’s get-together?” The kid snorts, hissing in the next breath. “Don’t make me laugh, fuck.” He holds his belly, fingers digging near the bandages for a painful moment before he sighs. “Could say so. I’m-” The muscles of his neck, his jaw play under his skin. “I _was_. A sidekick. Hero business, all that shit.” He takes back the cigarette, head nesting comfortably against John’s chest. “Habits die hard, I guess. I’m just doing things my own way, now.” There’s a note of finality to the words but in the following silence, the kid continues. “I can show you. If you want.” His voice doesn’t waver but there’s fragile openness floating in between them. 

John puts a hand on the kid’s uninjured side, stilling him before Jason can go through that half aborted impulse of getting up tensing muscles had hinted at. “Sure thing, love, but you could use some rest first.” It’s no order, just a suggestion. The kid stills again, relaxes once more. “Yeah. Guess I do.” They pass the cigarette back and forth until it dies, relief dancing along comfortable sleepiness. Sleepiness? Jason’s. It’s not much of a surprise when he shifts to rest on his uninjured side, using John as an over-sized pillow. 

His eyes are still piercing though, when he looks up, muttering, “Wake me up in a couple hours for more of that crap?” A twist of his wrist to the bottle of painkillers. John shifts to accommodate the weight, pulling his trench-coat (which had been half lying on the ground, half discarded over the somehow-holding-together table) over the both of them. Warmth and all. “Deal.” Jason’s eyes slip shut, but he’s far from asleep. Contentment dances between them, heavy and warm, and John wonders if it’s just his own, the bond’s or the kid’s as well.

He hasn’t felt so content to just lay with another human being since- Since when exactly ? Even when things were at their best with Zee and Nick, even when it’d felt like they could conquer the world, just the three of them, they’d never been this … easy. It hadn’t been like puzzle pieces slotting together without trying, the simplicity and acceptance of whatever this, this thing he’s got going on with Jason is. It had been- 

John comes back to his senses at the tap of the kid’s hand on his chest, teal eyes more blue in the low light, but still sharp despite the tiredness, the pain, the way his voice rasps, tainted with worry and fake irritation. _Concern and exhaustion._ “You’re thinking too loud.” John laughs, smirk lingering on his lips long after Jason’s head has stopped bouncing.

“Sorry, love. Go ahead.” The kid gives him another pointed look, but closes his eyes again. John lets himself bask in the moment, appreciate the heavy weight pinning him down (the kid is no lightweight,) the breathing slowing down and deepening, the deep contentment, akin to laying in a patch of sun and heat. He doesn’t let himself dwell on anything until Jason’s end of the bond is- It doesn’t go numb, not exactly, but it stops being so reactive to his every mood.

Not that he wants to resume his earlier train of thought. Some things are better left untouched and some cases (in most cases) dead and undisturbed. 

He’s got a ward to finish and- His hand comes up to stabilize the kid before he could slip and before the threads of pain he’d felt could pull at Jason’s consciousness. Automatically. John had barely thought of doing it.

Their bond… He doesn’t have much of a frame of reference, Alicia’s relationship with her ghost of a soul bond mate not a model of things to expect, but he feels like his bond with Jason is growing stronger and faster than what she had described.

Things to ponder some other time, if ever, or he might wake Jason up.

He wants another cigarette, the previous one long crushed and extinguished. The memory of Zee’s face, disappointed in him sparks in his mind in the light of the flame. That too, is an intoxicating sense of freedom. There won’t be disappointment and disapproval, no rejection or comment regarding his health if he lights five cigarettes in a row. Concern, maybe, yeah, but the kid is- He’s something John wasn’t expecting in his life. Good and simple, full of complications of his own but that he keeps out of John’s own tumultuous life. A life he’ll have to return to eventually, but it’s not like anyone will miss him in the meantime.

Chas, maybe. Probably not, though he might worry.

He wants- To see this through. To see how far their bond will go, to see how much Jason- The kid shifts and mutters in his sleep.

Whoops. Thoughts for another time. 

* * *

The wards are sealed and primed, ready to be activated. It had taken longer than it should, _something_ messing with the ward in a subtle but persistent way, but Jason’s still asleep and John had started dozing off as soon as he’d been done. It’s not like he’d gotten much sleep before the kid had gotten back from his night stroll. Doesn’t look like he’s going to get much more before Jason decides to drive them elsewhere on his bike, or book a train ride or a flight to fuck knows where next time. 

Heh. Good thing John’s used to all-nighters and catching some shuteye when he can. Not that it does anything to help with the tiredness.

Running around, following the kid on whatever errands he’s got going, whatever quest, personal or related to his past as a ‘sidekick’; it’s nothing new, the rhythm about as frenetic as John’s life whenever someone calls to him for help, even if he’s not out there with Jason. John is no hero, but he gets about as much sleep as one of them, maybe even less. He’d be willing to bet on that, and for less than a scrap of the recognition.

Doesn’t fucking matter. He doesn’t do what he does out of some need for recognition or attention. He doesn’t do it because he’s been trained to it, or because it’s all he knows. It’s just the right thing to do. He can help, he can do right, even if the people coming to him with imploring faces and terror in the depth of their eyes aren’t always those that receive that help.

He should consider waking the kid up, he realizes as the next half hour blurs into half dreams and sleepy reflections, his cigarette’s ember snuffed out on its own in the broken-bowl-piece-that-is-now-an-ashtray. 

But Jason looks warm, comfortable, blanketing John with his whole body. _‘Okay, maybe you’re comfortable and it’s affecting your judgment, John’_

The kid had rolled on his front at one point, tucked partially between the back of the couch and John’s side. And there’s no pain creeping in from Jason’s end of their bond. He’s- not quite radiating, something closer to bleeding out contentment, and moving or disturbing something so deeply satisfied feels like a blasphemy. Not that he hadn’t committed a couple of those in the past but-

Something tickles the edges of John’s magic, the guards he’d put up coming to life as the lock of one of the windows opens with an almost inaudible click. Not an amateur, but still someone dumb enough to break into an apartment while its owner is inside. 

They … can’t be seen from that window, can they. That might actually explain a few things.

The footsteps are faint but there’s two sets. They move around, slow and careful. They, whoever they are, might actually know they’re there. Might be here for more than some quick easy looting.

John fishes his lighter, not bothering to try and be silent. The footsteps stop as he revives his dead cigarette. He takes a long inhale, then exhales, using that time to get the wards ready to spring at the barest signal.

“I’d fuck off if I were you, mate.” John calls to the darkness of the flat-in-name-only, to the space beyond the back of the couch. The kid stirs in his sleep, and John nudges him toward awareness through their bond. He can hold his own but this is Jason’s place. Somewhat. As far as he knows.

Footsteps, not trying as hard to be silent this time, and two silhouettes appear at the other end of the couch; one tall, with blue (at least he thinks so) stripes, the other much smaller (a child?) with some sort of cape and a bright R on his chest. The both of them wearing face masks with white lenses. Capes? Probably. The kid- The small guy’s uniform reminds him of Robin, Batman’s sidekick but the other guy’s ? It vaguely rings a bell, but nothing, no- _one_ he can quite put a name to.

In the faint light coming from under the bathroom door (they’d both completely forgotten about it, whoops) John can make out the twin frowns that creases themselves on their visitors foreheads. Confused for one, angry for the other.

“Who the fuck are you.” Small Guy spits out. It’s not a question.

The tall guy shifts on his heels, cutting off whatever the small guy was about to say. “We’re here for him, not you.” Mister Tall Guy says in a measured voice, “This doesn’t concern you. Stay out of it.” Trying to make it sound like he’s doing John a favor, like it’s best to just walk away and ignore what’s going to happen. Small Guy mutters under his breath, fiddling with whatever’s strapped to his back.

Jason’s wide awake, John realizes, tension coursing through his body. He’s not moving though and there’s fragmented thoughts passing through the bond. _/Fucking… don’t… leave… alone./_ John knows he should be worried about their bond letting thoughts through already but he’s a lot more concerned by the sizzling rage he can feel emanating from the kid, and the fact it’s not affecting him. He settles a hand to Jason’s upper back, sending a silent plea and trying to let his own thoughts go through, unsure of whether the kid will hear them. _/I’ve got it covered. Let me handle this./_

Because there’s also helplessness and a thick layer of guilt nearly smothered by that rage (but there nonetheless.) That rage, while it’s emanating from Jason, doesn’t seem to be his. Or if it is, it’s not affecting John like the rest of the kid’s emotions, which points at it being something else.

Whatever it is, Jason is fighting to not act on it and, when John had tried to send a message across, had felt startled and- The two intruders? Guests? Uninvited, unexpected. Unwanted. Their posture has shifted to something more alert, ready for a fight.

Did they figure out Jason was awake ? How ?

“I’d be sorry but-” John shrugs, taking another drag of the cigarette, watching the distaste on both of the uninvited guests faces as he exhales slowly, letting the smoke pool by his chin. He tilts his head, scratching his cheek with his knuckles, feeling the heat of the embers near-burn his skin. “You deaf, mates? Can’t take a hint? Or just such morons you can’t even find your way out.” _Stunned laughter that doesn’t make it out of Jason’s mind but warms John to the core all the same through the bond._ Small Guy lets out a strangled noise, stepping forward threateningly. “Enough!”

Can’t say they weren’t warned. 

“Let me help you out.” John drawls as he flicks his cigarette toward the ceiling, activating the ward with a flick of magic when it hits the probably-white-three-decades ago surface over their head. The room fills with white light, blinding and gone in a heartbeat. 

As are their two ‘visitors’.

* * *

John snorts and relaxes back into the couch, brushing ashes off his shoulder when the butt of the cigarette falls back down and ricochets on it. Jason looks up then back to where Dick and Damian had been standing. “Where-” 

Rewind.   
Think.

There had been a flash of light, strong enough to register despite his then-closed eyes and his face being mostly buried John’s chest. Speaking of, his friend’s emanating smugness and amusement. “That flash of light. You did something.” Jason doesn’t want to face or talk to Dick but, despite the rage that simmers in his gut sometimes (most of the time, if he’s honest with himself,) he doesn’t wish harm to the Golden Boy. Or his loyal Demon Spawn, for that matter. Well, Damian could probably use a beating or three, or whatever would curve that attitude of his. An actual friend? Maybe that would do. “Are they-” _‘Okay?’_

John’s hand on his back gives couple of reassuring pats, more of reassurance coming from John. “Should be. Sent them back 12 hours, physically and mentally.” John drawls, stretching stiffly under Jason’s bulk- Fuck how long has he been napping on his friend exactly ? He’s not really light, more of a heavy weight these days, far from the feather light that being Robin meant he had to be. He’d spent the remainder of his teenage years building himself so he could plow and fight without needing a partner to dance with. So he could come on top of most fights, take a beating without flinching and take Bruce on one day. That had been the plan. Back then.

John’s as close to a partner he’s had since … Scarlet, really. Sasha. And having her at his side had been more of a surprise than something he’d planned. She’d needed to fight alongside him and get retribution, find an outlet for her own rage more than he had needed her.

John is ... something else. He doesn't need Jason's presence but it makes him so stupidly happy it bleeds over to Jason's own mood. He doesn't need Jason's lifestyle, hasn't been part of it in any way, and yet he's still around, despite the weapons, the blood, the constant relocating (thanks for nothing, Dick) or the hours Jason keeps. He's been keeping Jason company and fuck, normally, Jason would be worried for a civilian’s well-being. He _has been_ , despite the jagged, disconcerting memories of time spent in the Watchtower with John. But if John can make people vanish just like that?

That's pretty badass. _John_ 's pretty badass. He can more than hold his own, keep himself safe even if Jason's not around. He- He's looking at him, brows creased in confusion, mouth open slightly, cigarette hanging on for dear life.

Jason has no idea what he's broadcasting through their bond that's making John feel that fluttering, fragile thing. He doesn't hate it, whatever it is. Thin and fragile, like butterfly wings on ice. He's been looking forward to coming back to whichever safe-house they were in, back to ... John, really. Back to the easy banter and simple acceptance of Jason. As he is, not for who he was.

He- It's-   
He needs.   
Another round of painkillers.   
Pain is licking up his side again, blurring his thoughts.   
But he's out of liquid. His drink. Coffee. Fuck.

He shifts with a grunt, feeling John's hands come to steady him, not quite holding nor touching, but there, ready to support him. " 'm out." Jason offers in way of an explanation. He's not fleeing John's emotions, he's not.

He can hear John fall back into the deflated, used cushions of his couch with a hmph as he gets to the kitchen.There's just enough coffee left to mostly fill his and half another mug. The sh-click of a lighter, something crackling and burning. John sighs in contentment.

Jason wonders if his friend's even aware that he does that, of how relaxed he looks when he's taking in that first inhalation, the satisfaction that stretches through their bond for an instant.

Probably not. But if there's things like that he's noticed, there might be some John's noticed as well. It should make him uncomfortable, put him on edge but- The microwave dings.

"Thanks." He says quietly, as he leans over the edge of the couch, offering the fuller mug when John hums questioningly, his eyes flicking back to him. "You didn't have to- What you did. You could have just... left."

Jason watches the coffee ripple in the mug left in his hands, trying to keep his emotions in check. "You didn't." He continues, voice dropping. There's no bond between them out of this insistent link between their souls; they're strangers, tied together by a single thread and yet- "I'm ... Thank you. It means a lot."

That fragile flutter is there again, stronger, dancing along a lot of uncertainty, then John moves, surging up and-

There's ... lips. Dry and chapped, gentle and soft as they land on his. Fingers, brushing at his jaw, not holding him, just ... there, almost like an afterthought.

The kiss is light, a brush of lips on his own, nothing more, despite the way it makes his heart pound, the way it shatters any coherent thought into a thousand pieces. What.

John pulls back, slowly, looking patient, but Jason can feel the roil of emotions he's doing his best to keep to himself. What. The bond whines, an uncomfortable sound only they can hear as it stretches and widens, trying to accommodate the strength of their respective load of emotions.

"I like you, kid." _/But I'm not about to push./_ "If you're not interested, it’s alright." John shrugs a shoulder, lying through his teeth but Jason can feel the fear that doesn't make it into his companion's almost disinterested voice.

If he's not interested? In what? More time spent with John? He wants that. More of John's support, his quiet acceptance? Fuck, he wants more of that. He absently pops three pills into his mouth, taking a sip of reheated coffee in habit. More ... kisses? He's not- Jason knows the ins-and-outs of sex, has fucked and been fucked enough times to know exactly what to expect, but he doesn't how to kiss. He’s never been in an actual relationship. He hadn't even considered John could come to want something- a relationship? with him? Not because of John, but because he-

"Love-" John's fear has shaped into tired, exhausted acceptance. Fuck, no, he- Jason fumbles to come up with something, blurting out whatever comes to mind first.

"How good's your tea?"

John stills, both physically and emotionally. Maybe, maybe he hasn't fucked it all up. 

"Better than your grandfather's." It's a blatant lie, drawled out, hesitant wonder replacing the tired, horrible feeling he had felt.

Jason swallows, tries for a smile that’s certainly not half as confident as he wishes it could be. “I doubt it, but guess I’ll have to stick around and put that claim to the test.”

John’s smile widens slowly. _Elation, wonder and still that fragile thing._ Then it twists on itself, turning into that amused, smug smirk Jason knows all too well by now and he barks out laughter. “ _“How good’s your tea?”_ Really, love? That’s how you ask me out?”

Jason feels a light blush creep on his cheeks. “Hey! You’re the one who kissed me out of the blue! How’s that any better?” John, that asshole, is still laughing. Jason grumbles and pulls him up for a kiss, mindful of his side. It’s every bit as clumsy and awkward as he’d feared it would be. It doesn’t seem to bother John any, because he licks his lips and drawls, “Damn right, I did. Complaining, love?”

He shakes his head, unsure of what to make of that. John’s not commenting- “What’s up with the bond. I could hear your thoughts. You said it would take time.” _'It's been two, three weeks tops.'_ He doesn’t want to discuss it. That. Them. What's going to happen next. Not yet. 

John’s grin stretches madly as the man himself stretches more comfortably into the couch. “I have no idea, love. I do know someone who might have some answers but right now? I don’t give a damn.”

Honestly, for all that Jason doesn’t want to talk about their relationship, he sure does want to revel in it while it lasts.


End file.
